


ascension

by PaintedVanilla, smallredboy



Series: heaven's gate [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angels are assholes, Crowley As Lilith, Crying, Demons Are Assholes, Dorks in Love, Established Relationship, Home Invasion, Love at First Sight, M/M, Paperwork, Post-Canon, Recovered Memories, Self-Worth Issues, Tea, Threats of Violence, Wings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-17
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:01:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,551
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PaintedVanilla/pseuds/PaintedVanilla, https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy
Summary: Crowley has Risen, and Heaven and Hell both have their thoughts about it.





	1. heaven

**Author's Note:**

> hello! here's a collab between me, david smallredboy & collette paintedvanilla ! this first chapter is all my doing, and i'm really excited for you all's thoughts!
> 
> a note: i use they/them pronouns for michael just because, and i use he/him pronouns for uriel as that is what's used on the scriptbook, but he's still female-presenting and portrayed by his actress! 
> 
> the next chapter will come Whenever and will be all collette's doing! until then! :)

Crowley blinks when Aziraphale doesn’t reply in kind, staring at him as tears still slide down his cheeks. God forgave him, She forgave him, even though he’s sinful and abhorrent and wretched and—

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says after a long time, his voice rough and scratchy with tears. “Your eyes.”

He blinks. “What— what about my eyes?”

Aziraphale holds him even harder, and he squirms, tries not to cry again. “They’re— angelic. They look like mine, just brown.”

“What?” he breathes, immediately slipping out of Aziraphale’s grasp and running to their cottage on the beach. Aziraphale exclaims for him to wait up but he doesn’t listen, adrenaline filling his veins as he slams the door open and heads to the bathroom, his corporeal form nearly vanishing with how much he hurries. 

And Aziraphale isn’t lying— his pupils are brown, his sclera white like all angels’ and all humans’. He takes only a few seconds before he’s crying again, ugly sobs escaping his mouth, grateful tears sliding down his cheeks. “Thank you, my Lord, thank you, thank you,” he says over and over again, gasping for air as he sits on the bathroom floor, hugging his knees, shaking like a leaf.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims as soon as he opens the door, kneeling right next to him and holding him. “Crowley, shh, it’s okay,” he says, trying to be reassuring even as shock and surprise go through him. “It’s okay, I love you so much, dear, oh…”

He whimpers, burying his face on the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, staining it with tears and snot as he shakes into his embrace. “Thank you, my Lord, I won’t let you down,” he mumbles against it as he can’t help but think about Her forgiveness, Her benevolence. He is so lucky, so lucky, so lucky. “Not this time, my Lord. I love You, I love You.”

Aziraphale rubs circles into the small of his back, crying now too as the reality of what had happened dawns on him. “She loves you too, Anthony,” he tells him. “She loves you so much.”

“I love Her,” he croaks out, his shaking slowly subsiding. “I love Her so much, Aziraphale.”

“I know, dear,” he says gently, pulling him away to start kissing his tears away. “She loves you. She loves you.”

Crowley nods amid the tears, and Aziraphale makes sure to get extra blankets when they finally go to bed. They don’t dare think about the specifics, about how Hell will react, about how anyone will react— it’s all up in the air. Crowley knows this is the first time anything like this has even dared to happen. The first time She has been this merciful with an angel who had Fallen. He would’ve known if She had forgiven one of his kind, let them Rise once again.

He’s the first Risen demon. The thought makes him curl up against Aziraphale, trying his best to be quiet as he cries and cries.

* * *

“Um, Michael,” Gabriel starts when they pass near him, grabbing their arm and pulling them over. They make an insulted noise, but he ignores it. “I need you to… look over our roster. Urgently. I must be going, ah, off my grid. The age and all that.”

Michael scoffs and miracles the roster into their hands, a holographic list of names extending for what seems like millennia. Neither of them are sure just how many angels are there, and it seems quite a ridiculous question to ask the Metatron or Her, so they never have. Asking questions is a surefire way to be in the wrong, anyway.

“What seems to be the problem, Gabriel?” Michael asks him as they look through the list. It does seem like thousands upon thousands, but it doesn’t tire of names and it doesn’t seem like it ever will. They don’t know most of them— the majority are Principalities, anyway. Too small to be cared about by an Archangel. 

“Well.” Gabriel clears his throat. “It seems that, ah… it might’ve been a misread on my part, but…”

“Yes?” Michael snaps.

Gabriel hesitates for a second before saying, “I read Demon Crowley’s name on the list.”

“You — you what?” Michael hisses. “You must be misreading. I will keep…” They go terrifyingly silent, their eyes widening and their mouth upturned into a grotesque grimace. “How—? Why? Why would the Almighty—?”

“You saw it too?!” Gabriel exclaims, nearly excited at knowing he’s not losing his mind, but then he sobers up. He shakes his head. “We should talk to the Metatron.”

“It must be a— an error, a bad joke by a Principality, something—” Michael insists.

Gabriel draws in a breath and nibbles on his lower lip. “The roster isn’t made to have errors, Michael. It  _ can’t  _ have errors.”

They insist, incredulous, “But then how is he—”

“I don’t know, Michael,” he interrupts them, gaining a fulminating look. He hesitates a little before leaning in to squeeze their shoulder. “We should ask the Metatron.”

“I think we should leave it alone,” they reply. “It will perhaps fix itself soon enough.”

“It will not fix itself,” a voice announces, and Michael and Gabriel both jump and fall to their knees from the shock.

“My Lord!” Michael exclaims, Gabriel quickly following behind them.

“Yes,” She nods, smiling at them gently. “It is not an error. The Demon Crowley is now a Principality. He has repented, and he has Risen.”

Michael’s eyes widen. “But Lord—”

“There are no objections to be had,” She says. “He will drop by soon, perhaps. You all have to accept that he is deserving of this gift.” She looks at them for a few seconds, watching them closely as they both have their hands folded together, arms brushing and She is gone as fast as She came.

Michael stands up and fixes their coat, Gabriel quickly doing the same.

“So…” they say, drawing in a breath and looking at Gabriel. “Crowley is one of ours once again.”

“It seems so,” Gabriel nods. “I hope it’s some kind of test. Somehow.”

“The Almighty doesn’t do tests,” they say condescendingly, turning up their nose.

Gabriel nods, unaware of what he should say next, so he pockets the roster and starts heading away from Michael.

* * *

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts a few days later, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Do you want to… go there?”

“Go where?” Crowley asks, voice charged with sleep. The snakelike edge to his words when he’s tired isn’t there anymore.

Aziraphale swallows and makes sure that he’s still comfortable in bed, rubbing his shoulder a little. “Heaven,” he says.

Crowley’s eyes snap open and he turns around to look at him, mouth open. He closes it to then open it again, unsure what to say, stumbling upon his words. “Well,” he says, “I… hadn’t… thought about it. They all hate me.”

“I’m sure She will teach them not to,” he points out gently, kissing the corner of his lips.

“They’re all bastards, the lot of them,” Crowley says as he wraps his arms around him. “We’re both just a little less bastardly.”

“I’d say you’re more bastardly.”

He groans and buries his face on the crook of Aziraphale’s neck, kissing up and down from that starting point, making him giggle and melt as he keeps him upright, a hand on the small of his back.

“Perhaps,” he agrees after a second or two of prolonged silence. “But not bastardly enough to be a—” he chokes on the word a little, his mouth tangy.

“A demon?” Aziraphale offers.

“Yes,” he says hoarsely. “Ah, I don’t know why I can’t say it.”

“Something that comes with Rising, perhaps,” Aziraphale says. “So — I think we should go. No matter what they say or think. It doesn’t matter what they think or say.”

Crowley nods tentatively. “Maybe.”

There’s a long pause as Aziraphale rubs Crowley’s lanky arms, revelling on how pretty and different his eyes are now. A nice shade of brown, his sclera no longer that pretty amber he loves— he likes this new development, though. His eyes remind him of just how lucky he is to have Her as his guide. He is lucky because of his Lord.

He falls into a realization. “Dear?” 

“Mm?”

“You should, uh… your wings must be different now, won’t they?”

Crowley sobers up and straightens up. Aziraphale immediately pulls away to allow room for his wings, which slowly sprout out of his back. They’re far bigger than the ones he had when he was Fallen and they’re a blinding snow white. Aziraphale gasps as he watches them, eager to touch but not knowing how Crowley might feel about it.

He turns around and his eyes widen. Before he knows it, Crowley is sobbing openly again, shaking like a leaf as his wingspan extends and oh, he is so stunning. Aziraphale thanks Her silently over and over as Crowley cries into his chest, Aziraphale making sure to not touch his wings. Even as it might be from sheer, overwhelming joy, he doesn’t want Crowley to cry even more.

“I love Her!” Crowley wails into his chest, shaking, his wings fluttering. “I love Her— I love Her— I love Her!”

“I know,” Aziraphale says, rubbing his lower back, his shoulders, wherever he can reach. “I love Her too, dear.”

“She’s too kind to me,” he sobs, writhing and wailing. “She’s too kind— I don’t deserve Her love—”

Aziraphale soothes him. “You do,” he breathes. “You do, love. All the love in the world, in the universe.”

“But not Hers—”

“You do,” he says again and again. “All creatures deserve Her love. But especially you, Anthony. You repented. No one who has Fallen has ever done that before.”

Crowley whimpers out and starts going very stil in Aziraphale’s arms, still crying but not being so loud about it anymore. He hides his wings back as Aziraphale threads his hands through his hair, making sure to calm him down in all the ways he knows like the back of his hand.

“I love you,” he says quietly into Aziraphale’s chest. “I love Her.”

“I know,” he says, pressing a kiss to the top of his head. “I love you too; She loves you too.”

Crowley sobers up and looks at him with a small, shaky smile. “We’ll go up there tomorrow.”

“You do need your halo still,” Aziraphale nods.

Right, he thinks, a little dizzy at the thought. His halo.

* * *

“Welcome back to Heaven,” Uriel says, giving a half-hearted bow as Crowley steps in.

Crowley only had vague memories of what Heaven looks like. He’s still amazed at the sight of it, though— at the vast emptiness that seems to go on for infinity and beyond. He’s always tried to emulate his fuzzy thoughts in regards to Heaven in his apartment, keeping it unbusy, uncrowded, minimalistic apart from his great amount of plants.

The memories slowly start to lose their fuzzy quality and he grips onto Aziraphale precariously, hissing a little in surprise.

“Crowley?” he asks, raising a brow.

“Memories,” he whispers, voice strained. There’s colors, images he can’t quite make out— white, coats all in muted light colors, talking with nice angels, nicer people, all so professional and  _ perfect _ . Heaven has always been far too perfect. Like it should be, of course, but it’s still too much for him, used to the darkness and the  _ everything  _ about Hell.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen. “Oh.”

“Crowley,” Uriel says, trying to urge him to seem professional.

“Hold on a second,” he says, a little dizzy.

_ Heaven is full and all the angels are there and Crowley is trying not to ask all the questions that bubble through his mind. The Metatron has given a quick summary of the construction of Eden and all the roles angels will be given. Some have been given roles— most of them, at the very least. Not him. It’s that when he sees Aziraphale, a nervous smile on his face as he’s said to be the Angel of the Eastern Gate. As soon as the construction is finished, of course. _

_ Crowley sees him, how he fiddles with his hands at being put in public, people clapping. His short hair and beautiful eyes, pale skin— and oh, he’s in love. _

_ He makes a low noise in the back of his throat, flushing red. _

_ “See something you like, Lilith?” Uriel asks knowingly, tilting their head at him. _

_ He swallows. “Someone.” _

_ “The Angel of the Eastern Gate?” They raise a brow as if they’re judging his taste. _

_ He doesn’t quite reply. _

He shakes his head, clinging onto Aziraphale harder. “Fuck,” he breathes, tears threatening to spill. He doesn’t remember this— he didn’t quite remember even his name beforehand. But now he knows.

“Language,” Uriel spits out.

“P-please wait a second, Uriel,” Aziraphale says nervously. “He’s remembering Heaven, just— wait for him to be okay, alright?”

Uriel huffs, crossing his arms.

_ “Lilith,” Aziraphale says to him, stepping closer. “It’s good to meet you.” _

_ Crowley coughs and nearly trips on his own feet. “Oh, hi, Principality Aziraphale. How—” He coughs. “How’s the, the Garden going?” _

_ “Oh, I’m not involved in the building of it much,” he says with a wide, shiny grin. It makes his knees weak with want. “I’ll just do the whole, you know, guarding.” _

_ Lord, he’s an idiot. How didn’t he pay enough attention to know that? “I see,” he says awkwardly. “I’m just, supposed to sort of be around, I think.” _

_ “Yeah,” he nods. “Don’t you wish a bigger role?” _

_ “Don’t  _ you _?” he shoots back without a second thought. “It’s just guarding. It’s not like you’ll watch the first human take his first steps or nothin’.” _

_ “Well, at least I’m doing something,” he replies, huffing. _

_ “Yeah, yeah, not my fault She wants me to just lounge around,” he says crossly, turning around. He can’t help but ask himself why does She want him to only lounge around. _

“Aziraphale,” he breathes. “D-Do you remember me? As -” The name’s wicked in his mouth, even now that he has Risen. Like it’s poison. “As Lilith?”

Aziraphale shuffles a little. “I never wanted to tell you—”

“Aziraphale!” he cries out, still digging his nails into his coat. “I didn’t remember— I didn’t remember!”

“Gentlemen!” Uriel says, thunderous voice in action, his eyes changing color for a brief moment as they both turn around. “You two can fix your relationship issues once we get to whatever you two wish by coming here.”

Aziraphale keeps holding Crowley tight, like he might disappear into thin air if he doesn’t. He might, anyway.

“His halo,” Aziraphale says. “We need Crowley’s halo.”

Uriel’s face hardens. “Ah,” he says, “I see. Follow me, then.”

Aziraphale keeps holding Crowley as they stumble through Heaven, towards wherever Uriel is taking them. The corridors are blinding, Crowley notices, all still white and shades of gray dangerously close to it. He’s used to the cozy brown, warm red shades of their cottage, of the darkness of Hell; it hurts his eyes.

They get to what seems quite close to a storage unit, blinding white and closed tight. Uriel puts his hand on the lock, whispers something in a long dead tongue— Aziraphale shudders as the lock opens and they get inside.

There’s haloes. He shudders and dots cloud his vision, his knees weakening.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale exclaims, digging his nails into his clothes. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he chokes out, slowly raising his head up, looking at the multitude of haloes. All of them are broken, have bits taken off, dust all over the blinding light. Except for one— except for one. Something gets lodged in his throat, something like adoration. “Is that—?”

“Yes,” Uriel says heavily. “The only one in perfect condition is yours, I’m afraid.”

Aziraphale squints at him but doesn’t say a word. “Come on,” he says, leaning in to kiss him. “You should put it on. Make it something fashionable as you do, dearest.”

His hands are trembling so much he thinks they’ll break into tiny little pieces, he’ll become a snake again out of sheer panic. He takes it in his hands and they don’t burn off. Of course, it’s not like logically they’d burn off (he’s an angel now, he’s an angel once again after millennia), but intrinsically he thought they would. Like this is all a test, a mean joke from above, from Her.

He makes it smaller, tears sliding down hsi cheeks as much as he tries to not be weak around Uriel himself. As if he wasn’t the first one to know about his little ‘crush’ on Aziraphale.

He clinks it on his wrist— a wristband. He smiles.

“We—” He swallows thickly. “We should get going, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale smiles at him, kisses him again. “Perhaps we should.” He turns to Uriel. “Until next time.”

“Don’t you want to see Michael, Gabriel, Sandalphon and everyone else, Principality Crowley?” Uriel asks icily.

“Oh, I’d prefer not to,” he says without much hesitance from his part. They’re all bastards, the lot of them, anyway. Perhaps he’s in Heaven once again, perhaps he has Risen, but that doesn’t mean he has to like them all. He doubts She means for him to like them all. All he needs to do is love Her and that will be enough.

His eyes go over the haloes once again. The one covered with the most dust, the one that’s almost broken in tiny little pieces calls to him. He knows it’s Lucifer’s. He shudders and walks right out of the storage unit, Uriel closing it behind himself as he whispers in the language from before.

“Let’s get going,” Aziraphale says, kissing the spot where his tattoo used to be, right beneath his ear.

Crowley manages a smile, still clinging onto him a fair amount. He turns to Uriel. “See you, Archangel,” he says, bowing his head a little.

“See you, Principality Crowley,” he says as he walks off.

Crowley lets himself breathe for the first time in what seems like years as they step down Above and right back into Earth.


	2. hell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi friends !! im very excited to bring you the second chapter !! writing the demons was so much fun and i really enjoyed getting to play around with their characters !! i hope you enjoy !!

Dagon is the first to notice that something is wrong.

A quick glance at the list yields confusion; something about it not quite right. They pick the paper up and examine it closely, following down the long lines with squinting eyes. One would think it would be tedious work, but being Lord of the Files has to come in handy when it comes to some things. 

When the missing piece finally clicks, they nearly tear the list in half, their stomach lurching. They stand up harshly from their desk, wrap the long list up in their arms haphazardly, and stumble out of their office, shoving through the masses to find someone sensible.

“Duke Hastur,” they say, uncharacteristically tentative; Hastur hardly spares them a glance. “Duke Hastur, I— believe it’s imperative you inspect this. Straight away.”

They hand the list to him, and he takes it reluctantly. It unfolds and tumbles down, nearly the length from his hands to his feet. He sneers. “For Satan’s sake, Dagon,” he snaps, irritated. “Why’ve you brought me this rubbish?! What have I got to do with this list?! These are the lowest level demons you could possibly—!”

“Duke Hastur,” Dagon hisses, alarmed. “These are the lowest level demons, a list of those who sided with us during the Revolution.”

“And?” Hastur asks, annoyed.

Dagon grabs the list pointedly and holds it closer to his face. _“He’s not on it.”_

Hastur falters; he grabs the list and practically brings it up to his nose, scanning line by line, all the way down, until he reaches the end without the result he wants. He repeats the action, faster and more frantic this time, and then shoves the list back into Dagon’s hands. “It’s a mistake.”

“It is not a _mistake!”_ they shout, offended. “I am the Lord of the Files! I do not _make mistakes!_ He’s been on this list since day one! Why has he suddenly disappeared?!”

“How should I know?!” Hastur snaps. “ _You’re_ the Lord of the Files!”

He taps his fingers against the desk irritably. “Check the other lists.”

“Why would he have gotten promoted—?!”

“Just check the other lists!” Hastur exclaims in their face. “Do it! Check them! It’s exactly the sort of stunt he’d pull! After that fiasco with the holy water, he thinks he’s untouchable! Probably thinks he deserves a spot with the nobility!”

Dagon stares at him for a moment, the list gathered in their arms.

 _“Go!”_ he screams, and they do.

* * *

Beelzebub collapses on her throne, kicking her legs out and staring at the two demons before her. They’re both right messes; Hastur looks as though he’s about to melt straight into the ground, and Dagon is swamped, their arms filled to the brim with lists that spill over and tumble towards the floor.

“What is the meaning of _thizzz?_ ” Beelzebub drawls, feeling terribly inconvenienced. “Why _muzzt_ we convene alone?”

“Lord Beelzebub,” Hastur says, and if his voice is any indication, he’s moments away from combusting. “We’ve made… well it’s… a sort of _unfortunate_ discovery—”

“Out with it, then!” Beelzebub demands. “I haven’t got all day!”

Dagon thrusts a list forward, and in her shock, Beelzebub takes it. “My Lord,” Dagon explains hastily, “you see, yesterday I was examining the files— as I do— as I am— er— Lord of the Files—”

“ _Yezzz_?” Beelzebub buzzes, annoyed. 

“I was examining the list of the lowest level demons,” Dagon continues, “those who Fell with us and fought with us during the revolution, and the list— the list seemed _wrong—”_

“Wrong?” Beelzebub asks, evidently very bored.

“Shorter!” Dagon scrambles. “Something was missing!”

“And what was…” Beelzebub glances over the list with little interest, _“… mizzing?”_

“The demon Crowley!” Hastur practically screams, and that would explain why he’s so worked up. It’s not everyday a fellow demon murders your lover with holy water, and then fails to perish by it himself. “The demon Crowley! He’s not on the list!”

Beelzebub sits up slightly at that, her attention piqued. “Why?”

“I don’t know!” Dagon exclaims. “He’s just— poof! Gone! Erased! I checked all the other lists!” They begin frantically holding up documents of varying length, in an attempt to strengthen their argument. “The Dukes! The Counts! The _Viscounts!_ The Barons! The Earls! The Lords! He’s not on any of them!”

Beelzebub scans the list she’s been handed with a bit more attention. Dagon and Hastur watch her, awaiting her instruction.

When she says nothing, Hastur prompts her. “My Lord, what should we do about this?”

Beelzebub taps the list with her finger, lowering it; she looks at a loss. “I don’t know.”

“She doesn’t know!” Dagon cries out miserably. “I don’t know! The Duke doesn’t know! The _Prince_ doesn’t know! Who are we to take this to?! To—?”

“No!” Beelzebub exclaims, cutting them off. She looks alarmed, almost frightened. “No, he— he needn’t know about _thizzz…”_

She thinks for a moment. “The last time I had to deliver bad news to Our Master was most… _unpleazzant…_ ”

The three stew in troubled silence.

“Maybe he died,” Hastur offers hopefully.

Beelzebub brightens at this. “Maybe he died!”

“But the Holy Water didn’t kill him!” Dagon insists. “What would have?”

Beelzebub slumps back into her throne, frustrated over Dagon making a good point. 

“Perhaps he’s taken his name off the list himself?” Dagon suggests. “I— don’t believe— he should be able to _do that,_ but he _did_ say he’d like to be left alone.”

“Left alone!” Beelzebub roars, leaping out of her chair in a rage. “Left alone?! I should have had him mauled by every hellhound at our disposal! Taken his suggestion of an eternity in the deepest pit! He’s a traitor! A renegade! He should have been punished! Tormented! Tortured for all eternity! Not _left alone!_ He should be bloody well grateful we’ve _left him alone!_ And now he wants to sever all ties with us completely?! _Unazzeptable!”_

“I agree, my Lord,” Hastur says eagerly, a dark tone about his voice. “We should find him— punish him for these— these acts of treason!”

“Dagon!” Beelzebub snaps; Dagon jumps to attention. “Where was the last place he was documented living on…” she gags, “ _Earth.”_

“Uhh,” Dagon says, drawing the sound out; they shut their eyes in an attempt to concentrate, no longer having the knowledge at their disposal. “Somewhere South? South Under?”

“Down Under?” Hastur guesses.

“No, no, it was definitely South,” Dagon insists. “South— Southdin— South Dow— South Downs! South Downs!” they exclaim triumphantly. “South Downs! In England! That is where he is living!”

Beelzebub chews her lip. “Then we will find him there,” she declares. “And we will remind him that he is one of us. We are the Fallen. And he cannot… _ezzcape uzz.”_

* * *

Crowley and Aziraphale have been idly seated in the back corner of their favorite restaurant for thirty minutes; the only reason the waitstaff haven’t been by to bother them about what they’d like to order is because every time anyone wanders close to their table, they suddenly remember they have something pressing to attend to elsewhere.

Crowley is sitting across from Aziraphale, nursing a Sprite that has not needed to be refilled; at least, not by any human, Aziraphale has seen to that. Crowley hasn’t said a word since ordering his drink, opting instead to stare at the wall above Aziraphale’s head and twist his halo on his wrist incessantly.

“Dear,” Aziraphale says gently. “You’re going to think I’m making this up, but you _can_ irritate it if you tamper with it too much.”

“Huh?” Crowley asks, snapping out of his trance. 

Aziraphale smiles softly at him. “Are you feeling any better?”

Crowley sits up straighter, letting go of his halo and trying to look presentable. “Yes,” he admits. “It’s— better now. I’m not being completely bombarded. They’re just… trickling in.”

“What is?” Aziraphale asks.

“The memories,” Crowley says. “One leads to another, leads to another. You get the gist. It’s not as bad not being—- there. Not that there’s anything wrong with… there.”

They exchange a glance.

“Okay, there’s a lot of things wrong with _there,”_ Crowley admits, and Aziraphale smiles at him. “I mean, it’s not— it’s nothing to do with _Her,_ She’s— She’s not done anything wrong, of course, I just mean—”

“I know what you mean,” Aziraphale says calmly, trying to keep Crowley from dissolving into a panic. “Many of the angels… they could stand to be kinder.”

A smile tugs at the corner of Crowley’s lips. “Like you.”

“Oh, very clever,” Aziraphale says. “And admittedly some of them could stand to be more properly devoted to Her. Like you.”

Crowley blushes fiercely. “Aziraphale, I’ve been at this for a few _days—”_

“No,” Aziraphale says calmly, smiling warmly at him. “You never stopped.”

 _“Oh,”_ Crowley says, blushing harder and sinking down in his chair. “Tell the whole blessed world.”

“I shall,” Aziraphale proclaims fondly. “Sing your praises, Anthony Crowley, Principality, for being so utterly devoted to Her, your love never once faltered. Not through your questions, not through Falling, and not through six-thousand years of ill-performed service to the opposition. I don’t know a single other angel who could _ever—_ and certainly not another _demon._ Truthfully, Crowley, do you think— do you think if _Gabriel_ Fell, he would still hold faith? You’re the best of all of us.”

“You’re flattering me, stop,” Crowley teases. “You don’t mean that, you’re just trying to make sure you get snogged when we get home.”

“I can do both,” Aziraphale says innocently, and Crowley laughs.

* * *

Beelzebub plans her speech while Dagon finds out exactly where South Downs is. By the time they actually make their way onto the rocky beach, she’s practically perfected her spiel on how if Crowley wanted to be left alone, he should have known better than to attempt to sever ties, because now they’re going to be proceeding with the original plan: an eternities torture.

The delivery of her speech is marred when they finally happen upon their destination; a quaint, seaside cottage. Beelzebub, Dagon and Hastur stand before it in disgust. 

“Are you sure this is where he’s living?” Hastur sneers; part of the exterior wall is a blend of well placed stones, the other part faded and worn wood. It’s very homely and very cozy, and to the demons standing before it, very, very repulsive.

“I’m sure this is it,” Dagon says, sounding very unsure. “It was in the last file I composed by hand. And I’m certain I wrote it down right, I’m—”

“Lord of the Files, yes, we know,” Beelzebub snaps, not taking her eyes off the front door. “It’s dark inside. No candles lit.”

“I don’t trust it,” Hastur says darkly. “I’ve seen his flat in London— it was nothing like this. It must be a trap. His car’s not even here.”

Beelzebub snaps her fingers; the front door pops open with a loud _bang!_

“It won’t hurt to have a look,” she says, leading the way.

Inside is quiet; peace settles over the interior like a blanket. There’s a calmness and a stillness about it that makes it feel very warm, which naturally unsettles the three figures lurking inside. They creep through the entrance hall, past a coat rack that hasn’t been touched in a long while, now that summer was upon them. 

The entrance hall lands them in at a worn wooden table with a vase of flowers in the center, seated next to a large window that overlooks the side yard. Behind the table, a thin bar connected to the rest of the kitchen counters, which lay on the other side. It’s tidy, cleaned up, everything tucked away into its proper place, bathed in the lingering light of the setting sun.

The kitchen yields no results; to the right is a den littered with houseplants, the far wall lined with filled bookcases. The furniture is well broken in and soft to the touch, the coffee table littered with clues about what the most recent conversation had been about. The space looks well lived in, with tartan throw blankets scattered, and a small nook on the windowsill that’s too small for a person, but just the right size for a snake.

Dagon picks at the cover of a book sitting on the edge of the coffee table and snaps their hand back, hissing in pain.

“Watch it,” Hastur snaps. “Think he’s livin’ with the angel. Bibles layin’ around.”

“Yeah, I noticed,” Dagon sneers, cradling their hand, the tips of their fingers blistered.

There’s a small room off the den filled mostly with more books and plants; it seems effectively the same as the den, except it lacks a television, and the only place to sit is a desk chair, pushed in next to a desk it doesn’t match with. Next to this room, a restroom that looks as though it’s never been used. Across the hall, a bedroom that is quite the opposite. The bed is hastily made; clothes litter the floor near the laundry bin, as though tossed from the other side of the room and not quite making it to their intended destination.

Dagon takes it upon themself to rifle in the drawers, yielding no results besides the discovery of pajamas and underwear.

“There’s nothing here,” Hastur growls. “I told you, this isn’t his… er… style. He’s probably still in London.”

“I don’t make mistakes with the files!” Dagon insists.

Beelzebub, frustrated, stalks out of the bedroom, back through the cottage and out the back door in the kitchen. “There must be something here!” she exclaims, stomping into a well laid garden. “He shouldn’t be able to hide this easily— he shouldn’t be powerful enough to simply disappear! Why can we not simply _go to him!”_

Dagon and Hastur appear in the doorway. “My Lord—”

“Can you not simply find him?!” Beelzebub shouts, turning to them. “Duke Hastur, when you confronted him on the M25, did you not simply _go to him?!”_

Hastur swallows. “I did, my Lord.”

Beelzebub clenches her fists. “So do it _again.”_ she buzzes angrily.

Hastur makes to obey, shutting his eyes and attempting to concentrate. After a moment, he withers and opens his eyes again. Beelzebub glares at him. _“What?”_

“I can’t find him,” Hastur insists. “He’s just not there!”

“He must be dead!” Dagon cries, attempting to sound delighted. “There’s no other explanation! How else could he—”

“ _Silenzze_!” Beelzebub buzzes.

In this distance, headlights come into view.

* * *

Crowley stiffens uncomfortably in the driver's seat. “Someone is here.”

Aziraphale, who had stiffened in the same instant, glances suspiciously at the cottage. “Several someones, it would seem.”

They exchange a glance. “Suppose it was only a matter of time before they realized I was missing,” Crowley says with a grimace. “Let’s see what Hell they try to raise.”

There’s a brief pause.

“Did you like my joke?” Crowley asks.

“Yes, I did, dear,” Aziraphale says, in a quiet and fond tone.

They climb out of the car; as soon as they shut the doors, Beelzebub’s small figure emerges and stands in the doorway to the house. Crowley can’t help being smug as he starts towards her.

“Hello, Beelzebub,” he says lightly, relishing in a small thrill of addressing her without a title. He slips past her and into the house. “May I ask what brings you to South Downs?”

Beelzebub sputters as Aziraphale steps past her as well, staying quiet while Crowley has his fun. 

Crowley flicks on the kitchen light, alerting him of the two other figures lurking in the living room. He tries not to wince. “Dagon. Hastur. How are things?”

“Terrible,” Hastur says in a low voice. “Thanks to you.”

“Ah,” Crowley says. “… Tea?”

Hastur only glowers at him. 

“Tea sounds nice,” Dagon admits.

“Tea does sound nice, dear,” Aziraphale says, as Beelzebub stumbles back inside.

Crowley glances at her. “Beelzebub? Tea?”

She flushes angrily, glaring at him. “You _inzzubordinate_ little snake!”

“No tea then,” Crowley concludes; he shuts the back door where it had been left open and pulls three mugs out of the cabinet.

“You’re dead, Crowley,” Hastur growls. “Did you really think you could get away with it?”

“Get away with what?” Crowley asks innocently.

“Severing ties with Hell!” Dagon cries. “You’re not on any of my paperwork! You’ve taken your name off the lists!”

They pause for a moment, and then in a very mild tone, they add, “I’d like earl grey, if you have it.”

Crowley gives them a thumbs up, moving to put the kettle on.

“Do you even deny it?” Hastur snaps. “Do you even _deny_ betraying us?”

“I’ve done it before, haven’t I?” Crowley asks flippantly. “I remember something culminating in a bathtub and some Holy Water— that really wasn’t a good look for you in the end, Beelzebub. One of your lowest—”

“ _Zztop_ calling me that!” Beelzebub shrieks, her buzz slipping in to every instance of her speech. “How _dare_ you. I am the Lord of the _Fliezz_ , _Prinzze_ of Hell, and you shall _addrezz me_ with my _proper title_ or you shall _suffer the conzzequencezz.”_

“You think because you’ve scratched your name out on the official paperwork, you can just run off?” Hastur sneers. “You cannot simply _sever ties_ with Hell, Crowley. We are the Fallen. _Do not forget that.”_

Crowley and Aziraphale exchange an amused glance.

“ _What’zz_ _zzo_ funny?” Beelzebub seethes.

“Nothing’s funny,” Crowley assures her, failing to keep a smug smile off his face. “I simply wanted to move out of the city and live with my husband. Is that such a terrible thing?”

“Terrible when the place you live in looks like this,” Dagon says; they kick the coffee table, and the Bible they’d burned themself on earlier tumbles to the floor. 

Crowley sighs quietly, crossing to the living room; he picks the Bible up off the floor, not wincing at all, and sets it back on the coffee table. There’s not a single blister on his hand.

Beelzebub is on him in a moment, grabbing him by the back of his blazer and slamming him against the wall. She grabs his shirt collar, leaning up in an attempt to get in his face; it doesn’t work well, seeing as she’s nearly a foot shorter than him. 

“I don’t know what you’ve done to _yourzzelf_ ,” she buzzes angrily. “I don’t know how you’re going around bathing in Holy Water and picking up _Biblezz_ , but it’s abhorrent. It’s _dizzguzzting_ , Crowley, watching a demon with your _accomplishmentzz_ in the realm of sin shy away from truly devoting yourself to our _Mazzter_ . I don’t know where you get off thinking you can run out on _uzz_ , but it’s over, Crowley. _Addrezz_ me properly, as your Lord, and _perhapzz_ your eternity of torture will be somewhat berable. _Otherwizze_ you will suffer the _conzzequencezz_.”

Crowley can’t keep the grin off his face. “Oh, but you’re not.”

Her grip tightens on his collar. “Aren’t I?”

“No, sorry,” Crowley says cheekily.

“Then I must _azzume_ you refer to our Master as your Lord,” Beelzebub says darkly. “I’ll give you one more chance.”

Crowley’s smile widens. “Sorry, no.”

Fury flashes in her eyes. “I will grant you the luxury of asking why.”

His eyes twinkle. “I shall have no other gods before Her.”

Beelzebub’s grip on his collar loosens. _“What?”_

“It’s funny, really,” Crowley says lightly. “I love Her so much, Beelzebub, and I wouldn’t expect you to understand, but in six thousand years I never stopped.”

“What are you talking about?” Beelzebub asks, trying and failing to keep the tremor out of her voice.

Crowley raises his hand to show Beelzebub his halo, a smug smile on his face. She lets go of his collar and recoils, disgusted. “That’s not—!” 

“It’s not real,” Hastur insists angrily, but there’s fear in his voice. “It can’t be real. It’s not possible. A demon can’t—”

“Return to Heaven?” Crowley asks. “One would think. I certainly thought so. And yet I did.”

“That’s impossible,” Dagon breathes, their eyes wide.

“I figured you’d be able to see it on me,” Crowley shrugs. “I’m surprised I got the opportunity for that little spell of dramatics. How wrapped up in your prepared speech must you have been, Beelzebub?”

“You _traitor,”_ she spits, so filled with rage she balls her fists up to keep them from shaking. “You’re— you can’t return to Heaven!”

“But I already have,” Crowley says, leaning back against the wall. 

“No, you’re mine!” Beelzebub shouts, her eyes going wide when she realizes her choice in words. She continues, frantic. “You’re— you’re his! You’re _hizz_! You’re a servant of Hell, you’re the serpent—!”

“My Lord,” Dagon says, voice dripping with concern.

“You’re working yourself into quite a state,” Aziraphale says, padding into the living room and handing Dagon their tea. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like some tea, dear girl?”

Beelzebub clenches her fists, attempting to compose herself. “I am not a girl.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Aziraphale says earnestly. “Still, though, tea?”

Beelzebub glares at Crowley a moment longer; she looks as though she wants to say something, but instead she looks to Hastur. “We’re leaving.”

“Ta,” Crowley says with a wave, even though the three of them are already gone.

There’s a beat, and then Aziraphale says, “They took our mug.”

**Author's Note:**

> leave a kudo or a comment if you liked it! i have a writing tumblr, [smallredb0y](https://smallredb0y.tumblr.com/), do feel free to come over there!


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